


Unbending, until it breaks

by Sapph



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Protective Natasha, References to Past Child Abuse, Tony Has Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapph/pseuds/Sapph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was never good at bending; perhaps that’s why so many people tried to break him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red and Gold

Tired eyes shutter, and for a brief moment he swears he hears the ticking of a clock as time passes by. It’s a silly thought, because all the clocks in his workshop are digital. He knows, however, deep down in his bones, that even in the quiet, almost static moments, time takes and takes and still expects more. Kind of like his father, he muses, and before he knows it his mouth has twisted in a parody of smile, a conditioned stretch of his lips that would say more than any words ever could if only people didn’t take to lies like ducks to water. He’s an excellent liar though, and he’s utterly aware of it, in fact, he’s proud of it. A small part of his mind might object to that statement, but it’s a part he buried long ago with the shovel his parents handed him, and now it only lingers in the darker corners of his messed-up mind, rearing its ugly head and wrenching his stomach into knots like the post-mortem spasms of decaying corpse.

He doesn’t like to think about the boy he used to be.

His eyes flicker along the lines of code on the illuminated screen, they feel dry and his vision is slightly blurred, but he knows that rubbing them will only make it worse. So he blinks and blinks against the light of the display and wonders if one day the dark will stay. Sleep is now a distant acquaintance, one who only visits every now and then to pretend they’re still friends, but at least it’s not an enemy anymore. He startles when Dummy bumps against his chair, clicks his fingers in an odd, almost apologetic way and continues to screw up whatever he was supposed to be doing. 

They’re a lot alike in that way. 

He reaches out for the tumbler of dark liquid, but his troubled eyes miscalculate, and his shaking fingers bump against the glass. The liquid spills over the papers on his desk, but he is too tired to care. The blueprints may be ruined, but they’re the only thing left whole in his mind; he can fix them, but he’ll never fix himself. Dummy whirs over to collect the glass, but somehow manages to knock it to the ground instead. He should probably be angry, but the sight of the little bot’s head hanging in shame makes him laugh instead. Lord knows he’s broken his fair share of things. 

It took him a long time to accept that there are some things even he can’t fix, even longer to admit that his mother’s fragmented smile had never been intact in the first place. He often wonders if perhaps that was something he could have fixed, if only he had noticed it sooner. 

A part of him is sad to admit that his mother was the one who taught him how to lie. 

She used to say that dreams should be cherished, her blank gaze fixed on a spot over his shoulder, as she threw back her glass of wine to savour the last drops. Sometimes when he was upset, she’d look him in the eyes and smile, but over time he’d started to question whether her smiles were meant to console him or to reassure herself that she still could. Her fingers had always been too delicate to keep him together; just like his father’s had always been too rough to keep him in line.

He’s certain his mother loved him, but sometimes he wonders if she ever was. 

There are days he can pretend that she’d be proud of him, but those are the days he always ends up feeling empty. There are times he surprises himself with how vehemently he wishes to be more than a metal mask, because in truth he is nothing but a monster on the wrong side of a dichotomy of colours. Deep down he will always be gold, not for the kindness of the heart, but the greed, and red, not for love or passion, but the blood of the lives he’s traded for fame and riches, and a kind of patriotism he isn’t sure he’s ever felt. A Merchant of Death who smiles at the name even now, because everyone knows that metal masks don’t weep.

Sometimes, children call him a hero, and he hopes they never grow up.


	2. Blaze

He hates the way clear blue eyes sometimes stare at him, like he’s a stranger in a familiar skin –he knows what it’s like to search for his father in his features, knows that they’re probably disappointed for different reasons. Sometimes the resemblance makes him nauseous, sometimes it makes him angry, but mostly it just makes him regret looking in the mirror.

Someone once said he had his mother’s smile.

When he enters the kitchen in the morning, Natasha’s sitting at the table, slightly slouched and red hair blazing. Bruce is across from her, sipping from a steaming cup. The sight might have surprised him once, but almost three months have passed since Fury asked him –because the man would never beg, and Tony was never good at following commands– to take them off his hands because they drove him insane. Well, he’s said it’d be good for them to stick together in case they were needed, but Tony thought the man had sounded rather irritated. Then again, he always did when they spoke. At first, he’d though they’d only get in each other’s way, but they’d remained in their rooms for a while, shyly coming out to test the gym or the lab, or strutting through the shared living area with a bow slung over one shoulder like they owned the place.

It only took him a couple of days to navigate around them. 

He doesn’t hesitate to stagger over to the coffee machine, pushing some buttons and wishing it would work faster. If it was sentient his glare might have scared the appliance into obeying, but he’s not stupid enough to give a machine any kind of power over his coffee intake. JARVIS would disagree, but the A.I. had more sense than his creator and therefore he was entitled to ignore his comments; Tony didn’t need coffee to make sense, he just needed it. He cards a hand through his dishevelled hair and leans against the counter; an easy, relaxed stance that makes his spine feel rigid, and his bones ache and his joints groan, but he doesn’t move.

He was never good at bending; perhaps that’s why so many people tried to break him.

Pepper would ease the tension from his shoulders with her too small hands and her copper hair brushing against his back, but she’s gone – sometimes when he wakes up in the morning, the bed looks as cold and empty as he feels. The break-up had been surprisingly amiable. He’d expected screaming or tears, but all he’d gotten was a sad, little smile and a look of resignation.

He was never good at bending; and there were some things he wouldn’t give up, not even for her.

They’re still friends, and her number is still on speed dial, and all in all he knows it could’ve been worse. She’s still the person he trusts not to lie to him, to tell him when he’s wrong and tell him to do better. She’s still the person who challenges him in a way not many people ever have, and for that he is grateful.

He doesn’t like to think about what he might have done if she had left completely. 

There are eyes on his back and he pushes back the sigh that wells up inside him. There are eyes on his back and he can’t help but wonder what they see. He takes his mug from the coffee machine and cups his hands around it, cautiously sipping from the hot beverage. It’s scorching and almost burns his tongue, but the smell wakes him up, if only slightly. He knows he’ll need at least two more to function properly. It doesn’t help that he went to bed only three hours ago.

When he was a child he would stare at the ceiling and list all the things he would do better the next day. Now, the days all just blend together.

There are eyes on his back and he’s armed with caffeine, so he plasters on a crooked grin and turns. Bruce mutters a good morning, clearly not completely awake yet, but Natasha’s eyes are slightly narrowed. Natasha’s eyes are dangerous, he knows, because when they burn, they burn right through him. He wonders if she sees…he wonders if she knows...and sometimes he thinks he preferred them cold.

His mother’s eyes are dull and lifeless, and she doesn’t notice when he lies and says he’s fine. No one ever does.

“You look horrible.” Natasha’s lips are tilted in a smile soft enough to make him wish they were mocking. Whatever she saw, she’s obviously decided it was not worth interrogating him over. He doesn’t remember when her smiles had started to look sincere; it scares him to admit they most likely are. She’s ruthless and sophisticated, she could kill him with the tiny spoon she’s holding, and he doesn’t want to feel safe around her, because he knows how quickly that may turn around. 

He knows he’s just one blunder away from alienation.

He grunt incoherently and plops down on the chair next to her. He regrets it immediately, but knows it’s too late to get up and place any kind of distance between them without arousing suspicion. She’s too close, and there is something in her eyes that scares him. He fixes his gaze firmly to the smooth table top, and allows himself to sigh into his steaming mug. Bruce chuckles at the sound, and he thinks Natasha would too if the man wasn’t here. Natasha likes the soft-spoken scientist, but she’s not quite as fond of his green counterpart. She’s more at ease when it’s just the two of them, though Clint doesn’t count, and Tony’s still not quite sure when that happened

He doesn’t like the way her gaze leaves him feeling so open sometimes, like a raw bleeding wound that he knows is supposed to be a scar, and he doesn’t like it when Clint looks at him like there’s something there he wishes to fix. He doesn’t like how easy it is for them to slip under his skin, so when he has a bad day or a bad week he wears a mask over his mask and hopes it doesn’t just make things worse. Sometimes he lashes out and feels sick when they actually look hurt, he feels sick and it’s weak so he lashes out again.

He doesn’t understand why they like him better now than they did before.

He doesn’t understand why they like him at all.

Fingers brush against his elbow as Natasha gets up, walking over to the counter and disposing the bowl of whatever she was eating in the sink. Fingers brush against him a lot lately, he still hasn’t quite gotten used to them ruffling his hair like a child’s.

Fingers dig into the crook of his arm as his mother turns him to face her; she runs her fingers through his hair, pulling a little too hard on the strands, and smiles at him. He smiles back, and together they’re the perfect lie.

“Do you want to spar later?” Natasha asks and he shudders. She goes easy on him, and he likes the rush, but he doesn’t think he can handle the bruises she leaves; not today.

“I have a project I wanted to work on,” he tells her, and it’s not a lie, he always has projects lying around. Natasha hums. There are eyes on his back and they burn, so he clenches his fingers around his mug and concentrates on the heat it radiates instead. 

Fingers brush along his shoulder as Natasha stalks out of the room like a silent predator tired of her prey.

Fingers dig into his shoulder, and he shudders beneath the heavy hand. His mother stalks from the room like she’s just tired of it all.


	3. Worth

He doesn’t look up when the doors slide open, partly because he’s determined to ignore the intruders, and partly because JARVIS has already warned him. They’re chattering, loudly, and Tony understands why Bruce might stop by, because some days they toss ideas around and compare projects, but he’s surprised and a little annoyed when Steve walks over and snatches the screwdriver from his hands.

“What the…”

“You’ve been down here all day,” the soldier says and manages to sound both amused and reprimanding at the same time. Tony wishes he still had his tool if only to throw it at the other man’s head.

He should have told JARVIS to lock down.

“I’m working,” he bites out, because he’s not in the mood for pleasantries. “You should try it sometime.”

“You can take a break,” Steve states, but Tony doesn’t want to, not now. He wants to work, he needs to work, needs the tools and the circuit boards, needs to fix and create, he needs to keep his hands busy and his mind occupied.

“I really can’t.” He rubs a hand along his face and turns in his chair. “Look, I’m busy, can’t you just-” He makes a shooing motion with his hands and Bruce snorts. The sound makes disappointment swirl in his chest, out of all of them he’d expected Bruce to understand.

Maybe they’re not as alike as he thought.

“Look Stark,” Steve starts and Tony tries not to flinch at the harsh sound of his name.

“You’re a Stark,” his father says as if it’s both a duty and a privilege, and Tony nods, but he doesn’t understand, not really, not yet.

“Mr. Stark!” They crowd around him like blood-thirsty vultures, and he grins into the flashing lights, because he’s used to this, he can handle this, but sometimes he wishes he could escape it all.

“Will that be all, Mr. Stark?” Pepper asks with a teasing curl to her lips, and for once his name is smooth and warming –he can’t help but smile back. 

“- are you listening?” The voice sounds annoyed.

“Why should I?” Tony retorts. “It’s not like you listen to me.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Steve scoffs. “Look, we’re going to go upstairs and play a board game-”

“A board game?” he snaps, because really. “What are you, five?”

Steve ignores him and Tony wants to scream in frustration. If there’s one thing he can’t stand it’s being set aside like his opinion doesn’t count.

“- now come on, Thor’s waiting. It’ll be good for the team. Don’t be selfish.”

And he laughs then, and it’s sharp and bitter, and he knows his lips have twisted into harsh lines and jagged edges, but he cannot help himself. Steve looks taken aback and Bruce is frowning.

It’s times like these he worries that one day he’ll forget where the mask ends and he begins.

“How ‘bout: no thanks?” He twists in his seat and starts rearranging the parts in front of him –he really needs that screwdriver…

“Stark-”

“No!” he snaps, and he hates it, hates the way his name sounds on those lips, because he knows he’ll always be a reflection of his father, and it makes him sick to even think that in Steve mind they’re forever connected. He doesn’t want to be compared to his father, he doesn’t, because he knows that in the end, Tony will always be the one who comes up short, and it’s not fair, it’s not fair at all. 

His father sneers, and Tony smiles because that’s what he does, he smiles impassively and pretend it doesn’t hurt when his father curses and calls him a disappointment.

“Tony.” Great, now Bruce sounds irritated. How did this become his fault? Why can’t they leave him be? 

“Don’t bother,” Steve cuts in, brusquely. “It’s not worth it.” Tony waits until their footsteps have retreated to sink into his chair. 

“Sir,“ JARVIS starts, but cuts of as if he doesn’t know what to say.

Dummy whirs over and holds out a disgusting looking smoothie. It’s a murky brown and there are chunks floating in the thick liquid. He stares at it, and actually considers drinking the concoction, just to see whether it’ll kill him or turn him into a mutated monster.

“Worthless,” his father slurs, and Tony wonders why he always screws things up. He collects the dented metal and ripped cables and vows he’ll do better next time.


	4. Exceptions

Sometimes his dreams are coloured an electric blue, his vision filled with a search light that seeks resolution, always on the lookout for a soft-spoken promise that could remain solid in its glare, an affection that would bloom in its pale glow instead of bleeding back into the void from whence it came, but all he ever finds are the sleek words of covetous liars whose attempts at subtlety only ever come across as crude, because their wagging tongues are forked, not silver, and he is not that easily fooled, not anymore. 

He can’t even remember when sincerity became the exception.

The people who strut through the blue hue pass by so quickly their faces become blurred; men and women scrape their fingers possessively along the curve of his back, or burn hungry kisses into the line of his jaw, and his heart aches, but he lets them anyway. Sometimes, he pretends the tilt of their mouth is not smug but gentle, and he wonders what they’d see should they care to look deeper, but he’s too smart to live in an illusion fuelled by a childish desire he will never admit to have. So he watches their smiles turn into sneers, and their questing fingers into claws, and endures their hateful attempts to scratch at the outer layer of his mask

He used to hope one day one of them would leave a lasting mark; but hands grasps in greed and lips only ever brand him unsuitable. 

He’s forgotten what it’s like to feel clean.

On rare occasions, softer lips lock, but he can never fight the impulse to lock them out; and when fingers twine, he doesn’t even bother to undo the knot, he simply cuts through; because he knows that entangled he is an off-balance machine that is one jab away from malfunction. He knows how to reel people in with a wide smile too well-oiled to be anything but mechanical. It never ends well for either of them, and sometimes he wonders if they knew it from the start. 

On the edges of the light, soft shapes move in the shadows, beautiful and hesitant, as if they are uncertain he is worthy of their presence. Every now and then the light reaches them, illuminating dark skin or copper hair, easy smiles or burning eyes; but every time the light grazes their figures, their faces contort, eyes widening in horrified realization and smiles wobbling on their cheeks. In the end, he draws back the offensive beam and they retreat into the shade. He watches their willowy figures hover just outside his reach and thinks perhaps it’s for the best; those who pass through the light only ever leave anyway.

In his dreams, his life is a puzzle he never succeeds in putting together, because somewhere along the way pieces were lost, flicked away by careless hands. So he leaves them scattered and pretends that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

There was a hole inside his chest long before Afghanistan, one that even the arc reactor cannot fill.

He dreams of slick hands and deceptively gentle smiles and wakes up feeling empty, his forehead pressed against the cool metal of his workbench. It’s late and he’s hungry, and the beaker of brown goo still sits mockingly on his desk.

A dull clang resounds from his right and fingers press into his shoulder. He twists away, gasping, and for a fleeting moment of panicked immobility his chair tilts precariously. His heart skips a beat, and he crashes to the ground.

The floor is cold and his shoulder hurts and he can’t help but think he’s been here before.

“Shit! Are you okay?” 

He glares up at the familiar figure looming over him, a figure who was supposed to be out on a mission with Natasha, and wonders if Clint knows that his mask is a contradictive tragedy, because though his eyes look concerned, his lips spasm as if he’s trying not to smile.

Tony feels like he should be offended, but reckons that he’d better first regain some dignity.

“What the fuck are you doing down here?” he snipes, though his voice is not as steady as he’d like. He pushes himself of the ground and suddenly there are hands all over him, helping him up and stroking the back of his head as if to check for injuries.

His mind screams and his skin crawls, but the hands are warm and practised, so he patiently waits for the archer to release him, then glares again just for good measure. 

“You should work on your balance.”

Yes, Tony thinks, that’s definitely a smile on the other man’s face.

“I’m not really used to people just barging in, Katniss. A little warning next time, JARVIS?”

“I apologize, Sir,” JARVIS answers, and even he sounds slightly amused. “You have not prohibited Mr. Barton access to the workshop while you are present, and my attempts at rousing you proved to be unsuccessful.” 

He sighs; he must have been really tired for that to happen. 

“What’s with all the people coming down here today anyway?” he asks, because it’s getting kind of ridiculous. “Why are you here?” 

Clint’s eyes glide to the desk and Tony follows his gaze. A metal tray containing two plates of spaghetti is now resting amongst the clutter on the table.

“You missed dinner,” the archer says, holding out a fork. “And so did I.”

Tony grumbles, rubbing his shoulder, but is grateful anyway.


	5. It's Not Fine

Steve enters the kitchen when Tony is finishing his second cup of coffee. He doesn’t look up when the other man walks past him, opens the fridge and pours himself a glass of milk like he does most mornings.

Tony doesn’t understand how he still functions properly.

He waits for the soldier to sit down at the table, but for some reason he lingers. Tony can feel the presence loom behind him, but refuses to turn around and look at what the other man is doing.

He doesn’t feel like starting his morning beneath a reproving gaze.

It takes several tense minutes, through which Tony slouches in his chair and pretends not to notice a thing, before Steve finally concedes and moves. He pulls back the chair across from Tony and sits down.

Bastard.

He’ll have to do better though; Tony’s used to people condemning his every move. Steve’s gaze is heavy, but it doesn’t burn like Natasha’s, and Tony feels secure, because he can snark and he can lie and get away with it. Somehow, the thought doesn’t make him feel better.

“You weren’t at dinner last night.” It’s not what Tony had been expecting, but he’s learned to roll with the punches.

He hums and takes another gulp from his coffee, purpose dragging it out until the soldier shifts in his chair in annoyance. He takes pity on the other man, but only just, and answers casually. “Clint brought me some.”

“Oh,” he says, and he looks surprised, then thoughtful. “That’s- that’s good.”

Tony simply shrugs, his eyes trained on the dark liquid in his mug as he swirls it around. The silence between them is awkward and uncomfortable, and Tony wonders if he’s still angry.

The soldier finally sighs and leans across the table. “Tony, I-”

Thor chooses that moment to storm in, the bed sheet wrapped around his shoulders billowing behind him like a cape. He takes one look at them and beams.

“I am in dire need of sustenance,” he all but bellows.

Steve sighs, but gets up; Tony just stares and wonders when this became his life.

oOoOo

“Just sign the papers,” Pepper says, holding out a pen. She’s dressed in a smart white suit and wearing her I-have-no-time-for-this face that usually sends employees scattering in different directions. It’s hard not to be intimidated when she acts all professional, but there’s a softness to her hard-set gaze that he knows is reserved for only a lucky few.

“What about coffee?” he whines. “Did you bring coffee?”

She gives him a blank look, and he sighs dramatically.

“I have needs, Pepper.”

“No,” she says, lips pursed. “You’re just needy.”

He scowls indignantly, but she just raises her eyebrows and holds out the clipboard. He considers making her wait longer, but she looks a little tired, and he knows how hard she works to keep his company running, so he takes pity on her, drops the arrow he’s altering, and signs the documents.

She sighs and some of the tension drains from her shoulders. “Thank you.”

“Suppose you’re too busy to eat lunch?” he asks, because now that he’s been torn from his engineering stupor, he can feel the hunger set in.

She cocks her head and frowns. “It’s past four, Tony.”

He is actually surprised by that. “It is?” he says sheepishly, hoping she won’t go into another lecture about eating patterns.

Her lips curl into that fond, indulgent smile she wears when she thinks he’s being ridiculous, and she shakes her head. “I could go for a coffee?”

He shoots her a toothy grin, and is pleased when she rolls her eyes at his antics.

“Change first, will you?” she adds. “You look like a mad scientist, covered in grease, and… do I even want to know what that is? I don’t want people to start holding me responsible for your insanity.”

“Are you saying you’re not?” He scuttles away before she has a chance to whack him with the clipboard

oOoOo

It’s almost six when he gets back, hunger satisfied and CEO caffeinated –it feels like a decent accomplishment. It had been good talking with Pepper again, even if she hadn’t had much time to linger; he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed their light banter until they were in the middle of it.

Contented, he bounds out of the elevator and smiles broadly at the first person he sees, simply because he can and it’ll likely freak them out. Unfortunately, Bruce is the first person he encounters and all it gets him is a raised eyebrow.

“You seem happy,” the other man observes absent-mindedly from where he’s lounging on the sofa, tapping away on his tablet.

Tony huffs. “I am always happy. I am the embodiment of happiness. I am happiness personified. I am-”

“Happy?” the scientist asks amused. Tony refuses to stick out his tongue.

“What more shall we add to this delicious meal?” He hears Thor boom from the kitchen, followed by a hurried shout of “Don’t put that in!”

Bruce must have noticed his incredulous expression, because he shrugs, lips twitching. “Steve’s teaching him how to cook.”

And Tony really can’t miss out on that, so he slips into the kitchen and tries not to laugh. Steve looks slightly unhinged as he runs around, and there’s a green goopy substance caught in the thunder god’s hair.

“Oh good, you’re here, Stark,” Steve calls out when he sees him, and he sounds exhausted. “Dinner’s almost ready.” He looks around, and as if just realizing the kitchen is a complete mess, blushes.

“I already ate.” He feels slightly guilty, but mostly just relieved.

Steve frowns at him, and he really doesn’t want to stick around for another lecture.

“So, I’ll just go.”

“No,” the soldier barks, stopping Tony’s not so inconspicuous shuffling towards the doorway.

“No?” he repeats mockingly, eyebrows rising.

Steve makes an aborted gesture and squares his shoulders, and Tony can’t help but feel like he should make a run for it. “This isolation ends right now, Stark,” the soldier says sternly; Thor hovering behind him at the counter, brow furrowed. “You drink your coffee and then disappear all day, and you miss more meals than you attend. How do you expect to be a part of this team if you don’t make any effort?”

“I’m busy,” Tony drones, because it seems that the soldier always forgets he has responsibilities outside the Avengers, and frankly sometimes he just cuts solid foods from his schedule.

Steve scoffs. “But not too busy to go out with your girl?”

Tony freezes and he feels his face shutter; his eyes narrow and the corners of his lips twist upwards. “She’s not my girl,” he says, and it comes out colder than he intended. Steve looks taken aback; if it’s because of his harsh tone or no one told him they broke up, Tony’s not sure. There’s a dull pang in his chest as he says those words, but it’s fine, he’s fine. He loves Pepper, but they didn’t work out, and that’s fine, it happens.

He just wonders why it had to happen to him.

“I- I-” the soldier stutters, his eyes uncertain, and Tony snarls.

“ _You_ don’t control me, Rogers. You’d do well to remember that, if you want me to be a part of this team. I have better things to do than listen to your righteous bullshit, and I do not appreciate you criticizing my every move like some judgemental prick who thinks he’s better than everyone. I understand you’re our team leader, but that doesn’t give you the right to boss me around outside of the field. I won’t stand for it, not now, not ever, and especially not in my own house.”

Not home, never home; because home was where he blinked back tears on the cold floor and listened to the hurried click of his mother’s heels against the tiles.

The silence that follows his outburst unnerves him, even Thor is unnaturally quiet, though he looks like he wishes to speak. Steve looks properly scolded, his mouth hanging open, before he snaps his jaw shut with a click. His lips flatten to a tense line, but his eyes are bright and hurt, and it stings.

His mother remains silent as he yells, her smile a perfect stretch of white teeth and red lipstick, but her eyes glint and glitter like precious gold forged in misery, and he stutters to a stop, ashamed.

He turns on his heel, ignoring the shouts of his name as he stalks from the kitchen. He pretends not to see the concerned look Bruce shoots him as he rushes past. JARVIS opens the doors of the elevator for him, and when they close again, he curses, leaning his head against the cool wall and loosening his tie.

“Rooftop Sir?”

He bites out a short laugh. “You know me too well.”

It’s only when he’s flying above the Atlantic, JARVIS’ steady murmur in his ear, that he allows himself to consider that maybe he overreacted.


End file.
